The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four by Louis L’Amour

wind roared over the Lizard and above the slate roofs of Falmouth. Volleys of rain rattled along the cobblestones like a scattering of broken teeth.
    Shoulders hunched against the wind and rain, the rider stared through the darkness toward a bend in the road ahead. It was January of 1794, and the worst storm of the winter was raging over the Atlantic, screaming above Land’s End and lashing Mount’s Bay with its fury.
    Suddenly, a woman darted from the rocks beside the road and lifted her hand. Startled, the man drew up sharply, one hand dropping to his greatcoat pocket.
    “Oh, sir! Sir!”
    He looked down into the white, rain-wet face of a girl. She was shabbily dressed, with an old piece of sailcloth serving as a shield from the rain.
    “What are you doing out here, girl?” he demanded. “You’ll get a nasty bit of cold!”
    “Sir, beggin’ your pardon, but are you Mr. Talleyrand?”
    “Talleyrand?” He was puzzled. “No, I’m not Talleyrand, and what would a serving wench like you be wanting with him?”
    “It’s up ahead, sir. I’m maid at the Bos’n’s Locker, sir. The inn, it is. There’s a bad lot there, a-plottin’ they are, a-plottin’ against Mr. Talleyrand.”
    “And you came out here to warn him?”
    “I did, sir. I’d want no man murdered by them, not even a Frenchman, sir.”
    “And what makes you think Talleyrand will be here tonight? Only yesterday he sailed from England for America.”
    “I know that, sir. They talked of it. But they think he will be coming, sir.”
    “Thank you, girl. Now you’d best get inside before they find you’re gone—” His voice broke off sharply as two men came running through the rain.
    Both were roughly dressed, and in a momentary lull in the storm, he saw one of them wore a black patch over his eye. A tall, lean man he was, with the face of evil on him.
    “So here you are!” His voice sounded shrill in the storm. “What are you doin’ out here on the road, wench?” He grabbed at her shoulder and the girl stepped back.
    Instantly, the rider pushed his horse between them. In his hand was a drawn saber. “Get back there, man! Leave the girl alone! She came to bring me a message, and it will be none of your affair!”
    “Who’re you?” The man with the patch peered up at him from the rain, careful to keep free of the saber point. He blinked his eyes, then drew back, smiling suddenly, almost leering. “Ahhhh, Tom! It’s the Yank! It’s that American who’s been about the tavern. He’s no bit of trouble for us, let’s be back inside.”
    Without another word, they turned and hurried back through the rain.
    When they had gone, the rider glanced down at the girl. “Put your foot in my stirrup, girl, and we’ll have you back to the inn in no time.”
    When she had her foot in his stirrup, he put an arm about her waist to steady her. “Say nothing of this now, not to anyone. You understand?”
    “Oh, yes sir! I’ll not speak, sir!”
    Dropping her to the ground, he then rode around to the stable. A hard-faced man with a wooden leg limped toward him, peering through the rain. “Oh, it’s you?” He accepted the bridle. “Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll be carin’ for the mare.”
    The American stamped his feet to shake off some of the water, then walked swiftly across the worn cobbles to the side door of the inn. There he repeated his stamping, and opened the portal.
    Wind almost tore the door from his hand, and the candles gasped and went out. He stood stock-still, listening carefully until the lights were glowing again. The inn shutters rattled and, on the hearth, the flames guttered and spat.
    The man with the black patch over his eye was hunched over a table with two other men. “I tell you, Tom, they will never pass the Lizard this night!”
    “What then?” Tom was a burly man in a shabby cloak.
    “Then it’s here they will come! Only this morning, Brynie sighted their ship, and fighting a head wind she was! They’ll put in